Choice and Consequences
by poi922
Summary: "If there's one thing he's learned in all his years as a cop, it's this: life is a series of decisions, each attached to a consequence. And psychobabble aside, there are no right choices, only those that you're willing to live with…or change." (POV various)
1. Chapter 1

"Carter! I need you _here_…now!"

Fusco adjusts his stance again as he straight arms his hold on the Glock. His elbow keeps trying to sag, his bad knee starting to quiver from being locked too long in one position...and his mind a proverbial hamster on a wheel, racing in circles in an attempt to formulate an option that won't result in bodies on the ground.

"Fusco…? What's the problem?" Carter's concern bleeds over the phone, overriding the background babble of the busy precinct.

"Well, our mutual friend is about to assassinate someone! Commit out and out murder right in front of me. And I don't want to risk my ass trying to make an arrest. He's not listening to me so you need to come out here and put a lid on him!"

"Where are you?"

"East 27th , next to 145. There's a parking ramp. Leads down and to the back. But watch your step…I don't know exactly what happened, but the Professor's iceman…? Looks like he's about boil over!"

"I'm on my way!"

He drops the phone into his pocket and sighs his relief that he can again use both hands on the pistol. Damn gun is heavy when you don't teacup it...

But that's the least of his problems right now. The big one, all six feet and over, is standing not more than a couple of yards away with a strangle hold on a twenty-something year old hood rat. Not only is he exerting increasing pressure on that scrawny neck, but with the other hand he's massaging his victim's temple with a Walther, and all the while whispering into the kid's ear.

Fusco can't hear what's being said, but whatever it is, the young scumbag is blanching and starting to shake…presumably in fear. And oh yeah, does he know how that feels! He's been on the receiving end of that soft murmur in the past, that lethal whisper in the ear calmly explaining how cooperation is not a choice but a mandate.

"_No, Lionel. He's in the trunk." _Fusco can still smell the marsh air in the memory _that_ evokes.

He tries once more, forcing his voice into a calm he's far from feeling. "Hey, Kemo Sabe. You don't want to do this. Let's just take it down a notch and you can tell me what that low-life did to set you off…"

Reese looks at him. Which is a positive thing, right? Since Mr. Happy has completely ignored his presence up to now. But the ice in that blue stare can freeze the balls off a brass monkey.

He needs a different approach.

"Hey! You want I should call Finch? Maybe he can, I donno…help?"  
_Intervene, talk you down, keep you from blowing the head off that kid, and then maybe me…_

This time he gets a reaction, though not the one he'd hoped for. Reese lowers his gun, but tightens his hold on the dirty neck in his grasp, to the point the younger male is now starting to kick violently, breath coming in wheezing gasps. The ex-op, towering over the kid and outweighing his catch by close to a hundred pounds, has no trouble holding onto the wiggling refuse of humanity. It's rather like watching a world class fisherman handling a mullet. With the same disdain.

"None of your business, Fusco. Whatever I do to him, he's got it coming."

The words are softly spoken, an ironclad vow with each syllable dripping menace. What the h-e-double hockey sticks happened? Did the scrawny bastard attack Wonder Boy? Bad choice, but one that would probably only have gotten the kid thrashed. This situation seems beyond that…

"Look, I can't just walk outta here. You know that. Aren't you the one that keeps reminding me to "serve and protect"? Ya know…'be a cop'…?"

The street rat, apparently growing a pair during this exchange and probably thinking the chubby cop will snatch him away from the jaws of this wolf, takes advantage of his captor's distraction. He increases his wiggles and succeeds in slipping his greasy head out of the loosened clasp.

But it doesn't get him far as the ex-agent calmly and without seeming to expend any effort, grabs the kid by his filthy hair and effectively holds him at arm's length. The young thug erupts in an explosion of expletives, wind milling his arms and kicking, trying to dislodge the taller man's grip.

What a potty mouth! Some of those four letters strung together even Fusco hasn't heard. He turns his attention from Reese to the scrap of howling fury tightly secured once again in a choke hold.

"You kiss your girl with that mouth?" he asks the young thug. "You mooks need to learn to express yourselves better." He's rewarded with a wad of spittle projected in his direction but fortunately the kid is too far away to make contact. The punk does however get justifiably rewarded with a tightening of an already unyielding grasp, as he gasps and claws at his captors arm.

Fusco snorts at the sight. _What a mope!_ He'd like to just walk away. Not like the world would miss this screaming piece of garbage…and this scrap is one from the bottom of the heap.

But if there's one thing he's learned in all his years as a cop, it's this: life is a series of decisions , each attached to a consequence. And psychobabble aside, there are no right choices, only those that you're willing to live with…or change.

And he doesn't want to live with the consequences of letting someone assassinate another human right in front of him! Not anymore. When all is said and done, he took an oath. He's still a member of the NYPD…

He keeps his weapon trained on Reese. Doesn't really know why, because it's obvious the gesture is being totally disregarded by the taller man, but it's rather like muscle memory - a cop reflex. He wishes now that he'd just ignored the sight of his nemesis strong arming the smaller male and pulling him into that underground garage entrance. Could have just concluded the two had a meeting, or business, or maybe …something more personal.

But no, his curiosity got the better of him and he'd followed the two males into the murky shade, coming up on the pair just in time to hear the former agent attempt to extract the name of the thug's associates under the threat of a painful death. It was obvious the younger man was more bravado than brave, frightened enough for two, and practically ready to vomit up his fear.

Fusco doubts accomplices even exist, because if they did, this low-life would have given up his felon-in-arms in a heartbeat! In the kid's place he knew he probably would have…Mr. Deadly can be awesomely scary when he puts on that killer face. Like now.

"Leave, Fusco. You don't want to be involved in this."

The words are calmly spoken but the sharp-knifed lethality in the ex-ops voice and eyes is very clear; if he stays it's going to come down to this: he'll have to shoot Reese, or he watches the ex-op commit cold blooded murder...an assassination, just like he told Carter.

And should he allow the latter to occur, then he has two _more_ choices: he tries to arrest Reese and gets his butt kicked from here into next week, or walks away and…becomes the person he is trying hard not to be anymore. There's no win-win in any of this.

"Fusco…!"

Thank God! There's Carter! He doesn't take his eyes off his target, not so much afraid of getting jumped but more concerned about the helpless human dangling in Wonder Boys grip. But the ex-op seems to know _exactly_ how much pressure it takes to keep the kid truly uncomfortable, but alive. Probably has a CIA degree in that kind of action. Top of his class.

Fusco senses rather than sees his partner come up behind him. Reese is still staring at him, not having moved an inch during the entire exchange, but must have let up on the kid's windpipe given that the idiot seems to be breathing easier.

"Put your weapon away, Fusco" Carter says calmly, swiftly assessing the situation. "It's not doing any good anyway."

"Yeah, well. Couldn't just let him snuff the kid, now could I?" the portly cop retorts, holstering the Glock while pretending not to see the quick up and down of his nemesis' eyebrow. No doubt Reese is remembering those times when the cop stood by and let some low-life beat the tar out of him.

But that's all in the past he reminds himself. Before he came back over to the legit side, started wearing the white hat again. Surely Mr. Sunshine wouldn't hold those little transgressions against him forever?

He glances into those steely eyes. Yeah. He probably would. He slowly backs away and allows Carter to take center stage.

_To be continued…_


	2. Chapter 2

Detective Joss Carter knows she has a reputation for being "cool under fire", but with this scene she feels she's really testing that epitaph. Give her a raving druggie with a loaded gun over facing a ticked off John Reese anytime! But this is her job, what she signed up for...

"Problem, John?" Carter asks, purposely relaxed and seemingly unconcerned that her Man in a Suit is rolling out waves of deadly vibes. She shrugs her shoulders, "We're here to help if you want..."

"What I want is for you…and your partner here…to turn around and leave the area."

The sentence is perfect, the grammar flawless, the message clear, apt, articulate. Words evenly spaced, clearly enunciated, expressed without heat or emotion. And like pieces of chipped ice strung together, all the more ominous for their glacial delivery.

She'd worked around men like this enough in military…operatives like Finch's hired gun here…to know that the soft voice, the quiet bearing, the muted tone, all spoke to a potentially dangerous outcome. Her unsophisticated partner who has little use for what he calls "fancy" words and who probably has no comprehension of a mixed metaphor, has in this case described the situation accurately: in this iceman demeanor, John Reese is just a degree from boiling over!

Carter feels her adrenaline starting to spike. Not unusual, nor unexpected. It always happens as a reflex to any dangerous situation - natures way of getting her body ready for flight or fight. But this time it also stirs up a memory she'd hoped would never surface again.

The unwelcome scene starts to unfold, despite her efforts to block it…an event from their past that took center stage in her dreams for months after: _"I can't let you take him, John. This can't end up like New Rochelle." _

Pushing the memory aside she senses Fusco behind her start to comment and without turning around, puts out her hand to him as a signal to remain quiet. With John on the razors edge it's time to keep the discussion calm and uncomplicated.

"Can you at least tell me how this came about? What's he done that's worth committing murder?"

She needs to hear the words from John, if for no other reason than to buy her some time to ease these eddies of tension swirling around them. She knows he respects her as a person and a police detective; hopefully that earns her a response.

"I'll tell you as I told Fusco: this is not your concern."

She glances at the young man pinned to the ex-ops larger body, his thin neck disappearing into the steel vise of a muscular arm. Somehow she is going to have to get the guy away from his lethal captor. But that thought triggers a continuation of images from the past, of standing next to a car in the cold and dark and rain…. Like a transparent film sliding over the present. _ "Let me have him, John." _

She shakes off the scene. "There are laws, John. And if he's broken some …any...I doubt it's his first time. We'll take him off the streets and make sure he won't have the opportunity to repeat his mistakes."

Reese makes a derisive sound, his face a study in contempt. "Even if he has a record the length of your arm, Carter, you know that short of him having committed murder he'll be out in the streets within hours, no matter what he's done." He caresses the young thug's temple with his gun once more. "And if he's not out of his teens, someone will scream underage and he'll run free until he actually gets caught killing someone."

At least he's talking to me, she thinks. A step in the right direction. But she can't argue his point; it's happened too many times – to all members of the force. You bring in a perp, and the next day the guys out in the street again thumbing his nose at you. It's the reality of an imperfect system…but it's the only one they have. So just what is it that has surfaced the CIA assassin again in Finch's employee?

"_I can't allow you to just execute people!"_

She sees him quirk a cynical smile, and realizes with a shock she has repeated the words in her memory file out loud - word for word! And well, why not? They fit the situation now just like they did then…and the man facing her seems to remember them too.

"We've been here before, haven't we, Joss? And do you remember what I told you then? That whatever happens, it won't be on you. It will be all on me. My choice, my consequences."

Oh yes, she remembers. That midnight call from Finch looking for help to stop his employee from committing murder. Her mad rush into the dark streets to track down the man, and then try to convince him to give up his prisoner.

It hadn't worked. Short of pulling a gun on him, which he would likely have taken away from her at the first opportunity, she could only watch him drive off and trust he would do the right thing. And remind herself that every choice has an outcome…even a choice to do nothing.

"Not quite the same, John" she replies. "I at least knew then why you were doing what you did. But now, I'm in the dark. I don't know what you want with this kid! So help me understand…what happened?

…

_- Yesterday -_

"Sorry Bear…my aim was a bit off!"

The dog pins the tall man with a questioning look, as if disbelieving that his Alpha hadn't _meant_ to throw the ball so it would end up where it did. But he has no trouble taking advantage of his Leader now on his hands and knees, peering under the old index cabinet in an attempt to fish the ragged tennis ball out from under that dust-bunny haven.

Bear enthusiastically stuffs his head alongside that of the tall mans face, giving him an encouraging lick on the ear as he helps investigate the progress of this hunt for the elusive toy.

It's late afternoon and with clouds settling over the city, the library… never having offered a light and airy interior on the sunniest of days, is now become increasingly dusky. With the chamber lights yet to be turned on, it's making their search that much more interesting: the underside of the cabinet is a black cave that effectively conceals any and all occupants.

The two are still engaged in the retrieval of the wayward ball when Finch arrives, the tell-tale click of the metal gate causing both man and dog to abandon their quest in order to greet the genius geek. Bear bounds up with the agility of a young canine, Reese following more slowly, inwardly cursing stiffened muscles, the result of last night's exertions to save yet another Number.

"Finch, you're not supposed to leave without me or Bear…" he starts. But as he nears his benefactor the intended scolding is forgotten. He stops, scrutinizing his employer.

"Harold… What happened?"

"Nothing, Mr. Reese. Nothing to worry about."

The reclusive geek lurches into the main chamber, his limp profoundly more pronounced than normal. Nothing to worry about? If the painful progression to his chair wasn't already a spoiler, Finch's disheveled tie, stained shirt, and…was that oil or grease on his coat?

In addition, the fastidious geek whose habits border on OCD, didn't even bother to hang up the umbrella…or overcoat…but tossed both on an ancient chair near the entrance. That last action alone screamed something's wrong, very, very wrong!

…

Finch lowers himself into the chair with a sigh, carefully assuring his face is turned away from his employee's sharp gaze, hoping that the gloom in the library will hide any evidence of his outing. _Just act normal. Nothing to worry about… _

The computer is still running as his errand was not supposed to have lasted more than twenty minutes. With John and the dog having just left for the park, he had been confident of making his purchases and being back in plenty of time so as not having to explain to his overprotective employee why he left the library without Bear.

He places his hands on the keyboard to further the image of normality…and then realizes his mistake: the fingers on one hand are scraped and bloodied. But before he can pull the tattling hand back into his lap, his wrist is seized in a tender but unrelenting grip.

"Nothing, Finch?" The ex-op's voice is smooth as silk and as gentle as the grip on his wrist. But Finch knows John Reese well by now; there's steel under that silk, demanding an explanation. Reese swivels his chair so that he's now facing the ex-op, exposing the full results of his stupidity this afternoon.

Good grief! You'd think he hadn't lived in a big city before…actually believing that the young man needed his help to rescue an injured dog in that alley. Dumb, dumb, dumb! And the minute he stepped into those shadows he'd realized just how dumb…that he'd made a very foolish decision with dire consequences!

He really hadn't planned to oppose them. Even if he'd been in his former physical shape, he wouldn't have been able to fight off the two bullies…wiry, strong, determined men much younger than himself. _"__The better part of valor is discretion, in which better part I have sav'd my life"._ Words to live by, especially when you're quite sure there is no other outcome to resisting but being beaten to a pulp.

He would have willingly parted with the new hard drive, the two burner phones, his wallet…but the muggers were high on adrenaline, nervous, primed for violence. They quickly had him on the ground, stripping him of his wallet, his phone, his watch…and of course the purchases that had taken him out of the safety of the library in the first place.

He'd only resisted when they attempted to take his glasses, actions that earned him a blow to the temple and cheek and another hostile kick. But in the end they did leave him his glasses, probably only because the severe correction made them worthless to any but himself.

Reese is studying him, likely cataloging every bruise, every cut, every swelling…and oh God, there is a bump the size of mount Olympus on his forehead now! His hands flutter to his head, fingers outlining the swollen tissue.

The whispery voice is a gentle admonishment, "Don't keep pressing on it, Harold. I'll get some ice for that bruise; it'll help reduce the swelling." And then Reese is gone, presumably to find a cold pack.

Finch sits still. Comparatively speaking, his cuts and bruises are minimal injuries; certainly far less than he's sustained in the past. But he fears his employee may not see it that way. For all that he's a loner, a solitary man, John Reese has become somewhat possessive of those he considers his friends…and Finch knows he's been on that short list for some time.

He reminds himself to keep the details of his stupidity close to his vest. All a matter of choice and consequences…and it was, after all, his choice to enter that alley.

_To be continued…_


	3. Chapter 3

_- Still Yesterday -_

Someone attacked Finch!  
He doesn't need a Power Point presentation to explain the details…the bruises, the stained clothing, the lack of watch, wallet...

Oh yes, he's already gone through Harold's coat pockets: empty but for a receipt listing recently purchased items that are nowhere to be found. He also knows exactly the route his boss had taken, the stores he patronized…even without the information on the sales slip. He'd followed Finch enough times to know the geeks shopping habits by now.

Somewhere along that route Harold was mugged, thrown to the ground while robbed of his purchases and whatever money or processions of value he may have had with him. And whoever did this is now a dead man walking…dead _men_ walking if there was more than one!

Reese finds his boss still sitting in the same place, staring into space, or rather into the shadowy corners of the library. He offers the ice pack folded in a towel and gently places it against the older man's forehead.

"Here, hold it so. And you may want to lie down; it'll be easier to keep in place."

"I'm not sick Mr. Reese! And not that injured. A few days and these cuts and bruises will be gone." Finch replies with some irritability, quite obviously castigating himself for what happened. The expression on his face reveals that - like the start of a 50's song - his mind is chiming over and over: 'dumb, dumb, dumb'…

"Your wallet's gone too. And your watch. And whatever you went out for." The ex-op retorts. "So who jumped you?"  
He tries for a conversational tone , much like one may ask "So who do you like for the Series?"

Finch stares at him, and evidently reaching the conclusion that there was no sense in trying to dissemble. "Well, there was nothing in the wallet of value other than a little cash…all $24. And the drive and phones can be easily replaced." And because a casual demeanor is seemingly a dead giveaway for his intent, the reclusive geek adds, "And no, John, I'm not going to tell you anymore because I know what you'll attempt to do."

"I won't allow this to stand, Harold. I'll find out, whether you tell me or not."

And whatever shows on his face seems to make Finch very nervous indeed.

…

_- Today -_

"Help you understand, Carter? Fine..." Reese exhales. "Finch was attacked yesterday. On 29th, near the construction site."

Carter draws a sudden breath, while Fusco feels his stomach clench. Because jeez…this is worse than he'd thought! This young idiot hadn't attacked some random stranger or even Wonder Boy himself; he'd gone after Finch! And the result's not going to be just a thorough thrashing…the stupid punk is history!

Because there are simply certain truisms in life: never try to stiff the IRS…never throw a punch in a clinch...never spit into the wind…and never, _ever_, mess with Finch!

Not if you want to keep living! Because as he and Carter both know from past experience, Mr. Tall, Dark, and Fearsome will protect the Professor with his life if need be and mete out swift retribution against any and all that threaten the genius geek.

Carter turns to him, the concern showing clearly on her face quickly transforming into alarm. Fusco nods his head just once. "Mugged…" he offers as though finding it necessary to verify what they had both heard.

She turns back to the lethal killer in front of her, "Is Finch alright? Is he hurt?"

"He's ok, but roughed up…" Reese shakes the hapless human in his hold like a dog would a rag doll. "But this one will never do that again. I'll make sure of it." The rag-doll whimpers pitifully, once more clawing at the vise around his neck.

Fusco wonders how long this stage show will continue to drag on. Reese is still in a murderous mood, this conversation just an intermission until the start of the last act. And he knows Carter is not going to allow the tall man to turn this drama into a tragedy, just as he's already made that decision for himself.

But how to go about convincing an urban wolf to give up his prey…without bloodshed.

…

Carter tries again. "So what's plan here, John? We just stand back and watch you work over this…this person? And then walk away while you hide his body in some dumpster?"

At that the young man goes deathly still. The light finally dawns over Marblehead, his muddy brown eyes going so wide they look like headlights on a Harley. Sweat beads form on his forehead as he realizes…perhaps for the first time since the NYPD showed up…that this is no replay from Grand Theft Auto, but a real life threatening scene. Life threatening to him! He starts to whimper again, earning him another rag-doll shake from his captor.

"Sounds good to me," Reese replies calmly.

Carter sighs in exasperation. She stands with one hand on her hip, the other casually held behind her. Only Fusco can see that she has her phone in hand and is desperately trying to finger the key pad. Not easy when you can't see what you're doing! But he's gotten the message and moves in tightly behind her, taking the phone out of her hand.

While she continues to plead, beg, cajole the man in front of her, he swiftly ducks his head, hitting a speed dial number while still holding the device behind his partner. Within seconds his own phone starts to ring loudly and he takes himself out of the tableau, pantomiming the need to answer a call.

Turning his back on them both he slowly walks away, mimicking someone answering an important call, then swiftly taps in a number permanently burned into his brain. The phone rings several times, each unanswered buzz causing his anxiety to spike further. What if there's no answer?

Then, thank God…the connection is made. He explains in whispered shorthand the current situation, breathing a sigh of relief at the reply.

"Don't worry detective. I'll take it from here," is the calm response. "Just hand this phone to Mr. Reese, please."

He walks back to the two combatants and the human trophy squirming between them, earning a questioning look from Carter and a murderous one from Reese. Somehow he's not surprised that Wonder Boy knows what just occurred, but that doesn't change what he has to do. Carefully stepping just close enough so that the ex-op can reach his outstretched hand, he offers his phone to Reese.

"It's for you" he can't resist saying, unsuccessfully attempting to wipe the smirk off his face. And he will swear later, with every retelling of the event, that this urban wolf actually growled at him! Reese returns his Walther to the small of his back and still holding his catch in one arm, takes the proffered device.

"Hello, Finch. Looking for me?"

Fusco exchanges an incredulous look with his partner. Suddenly gone is the cold snarl, the thin lipped demeanor and whereas before the ex-op fairly vibrated with malicious intent, there is now a man relatively relaxed and…normal. Where is that lethal killer and what has Finch done with him?

He and Carter stand in place, unabashedly eavesdropping on the conversation.

"I don't know…about twenty. Maybe a shade under."  
_Pause._

"Doesn't matter, Harold. He was involved!"  
_Pause…pause._

"I know…"  
_Pause. _

"Yes…but..."  
_Pause. _

"Fine!"  
_Pause…__pause._

"What flavor?"

The tall man nods once then tosses the phone back to Fusco. The cop holds his breath and expects Carter is probably doing the same as Reese, in one smooth motion, swings his captive around, placing both hands on the hapless young man's neck. The thug squeaks in fear, his eyes going from headlight wide to platter sized.

The ex-op leans in very close and in a soft even tone, enunciating clearly every word, tells the frightened male, "Listen very carefully. I don't have a lot of friends, so I keep a close eye on the ones I do have. And if I ever…_ever_…catch you near _any_ of them, you will not get away. I _will_ find you…I _will_ kill you."

With that he shoves the shivering punk toward Carter and announces cheerfully, "All yours detective. I've got an errand to run…"

…

Reese is very aware of the three sets of eyes drilling into his back while he makes his way up the ramp. His temper cooled, he mentally reviews the events of the last twenty-four hours, analyzing not for other avenues or options that he could have taken, but to catalog his own reactions for future reference.

Harold had finally been forthcoming with an explanation of what happened in that alley, describing the actions of the two thugs that attacked him. And his benefactor was probably right: the younger thug was involved but likely just a follower, imitating the older man who had initiated and followed through on the physical assault. The fact that the young male hadn't touched Finch was the only thing that stood between him and a watery grave in Oyster Bay.

His path is clear. He will revisit the surveillance tapes and track down the other mugger. And this time he'll make sure the detective duo isn't around while he takes care of the…problem. The choice is his, and he willingly accepts the consequences. Because _no one_ is allowed to mess with Finch!

But first, vanilla ice cream for Harold. And maybe some chocolate for himself…

…

_John Reese smiles at the thought, unaware that even as he's mulls over a choice between Rocky Road and World Class Chocolate, the Machine is listing another Number for Admin - this one belonging to a thirty-two year old lifetime petty criminal, recently involved in an alley mugging…_


	4. Chapter 4

I thought I was through with this story...but apparently not.  
The rest was keeping me awake and evidently the only way to get some decent sleep is to post the rest of the 3 chapters!  
Then it's done.  
Really. :)

* * *

Chapter 4

...Next Day...

_Oh, this is not good! Not good at all…!_

Finch stares at the monitor, scrutinizing once more the data it presents, letting his eyes verify what his brain already processed the first time he read it. Not that the data is note worthy; it is in fact unremarkable in the extreme, predictable from the first word to the last.

No, what is the eye-catcher on this screen is the photo on display.

If only he could just do his magic and erase this image from the virtual ether…but that won't change anything. Not in the real world. And even if it would, did he really have a moral right to ignore what the Machine has given him…just pick and choose those Numbers he wants to save and simply disregard the rest?

Bear approaches him and places a large paw on his knee. The dog looks at him questioningly, bright eyes full of concern over the evident distress the canine senses in the reclusive geek. Finch carefully wipes the horror off his face, responding to the animal in what he hopes is a reassuring tone.

"It's alright Bear. We'll sort this out…somehow."

And with an audible sigh the dog returns to his bed, mollified but not completely confident all is well. Finch returns his attention to the screen, carefully tamping down the agitation he feels in viewing the image. He will sort this out…_has_ to sort this out.

He's already filed a complaint against the younger mugger - under an assumed name of course - so it would be no big step to add this individual to that report and let the Detective Duo handle this.

And then as far as the Machine giving him this number, well...no harm no foul.

What is puzzling him now is the 'why' involved here. Why did the Machine give him _this_ Number? The irrelevant list consists of people planning a transgression, architects or executors of a crime. Or - it forwards the numbers of people who are potentially victims of such planned activities, targets of premeditated aggression.

His train of thought comes to an abrupt end as the sound of the metal gate opening has Bear bounding out of bed to greet his Alpha. Ah, his employee has arrived. He swivels the chair in time to see Reese deposit his purchases on the ancient chair near the entry as the dog enthusiastically meets the tall man, then proceeds through the greeting protocols: a lick on the hand…or any patch of reachable skin...then leaning into the human as he receives his morning ear rub.

The next step will be the traditional scent scan during which the dog will catalog exactly where his Alpha has been and with whom he has had contact.

Finch smiles at the sight, despite the worry that crawls at the periphery of his awareness. It never ceases to amaze him how the CIA killer disappears so quickly in the presence of Bear and how the image of a much younger person surfaces…one that must have existed before the Army missions, the CIA black ops, and heartache created an almost impenetrable wall around his employee's persona.

"You're here early, Finch," the ex-op remarks, retrieving the paper cup and mini-box of donuts before proceeding into the main chamber.

"Just had some details to take care of," he responds, and changing the subject quickly, "So what did you bring this morning?"

"Sprinkles."

"Sprinkles? We had that yesterday…" he grumbles, wrinkling his nose for emphasis.

"Those were multi-color. These are chocolate."

"Hurrumph…" He's not that big a fan of chocolate, even if only in sprinkles. Even less so since that incident in which Bear ate the leftover chocolate filled donuts and then became deathly ill. But there's not that much chocolate on these. It'll have to do…

"Do we have a Number this morning?" Reese asks around a mouthful of donut. "Because if not, I've got to take care of some business."

Finch stills in mid bite. _Oh, I bet you do… And I know exactly what business that is!_

He swiftly evaluates his choice of answers and the consequences that will result. No doubt his employee has already seen the monitor screen and likely determined the image as the result of his boss' research. The question is asked only to verify that the research is related to a new Number.

He knows his employee well…and makes a decision.

"Actually yes. Just a few minutes ago." He turns back to the screen and reads off the pertinent data, and adds, "Not much different from the person who shot you in that alley not so long ago. Once again, we don't know whether he is a perpetrator or victim, or maybe both, considering the type of activity he seems to prefer."

The ex-op snorts. "The Machine seems to be stuck in a rut giving us these low-lifes to investigate. I think I'd even rather be following Leon again. He's at least amusing!" The ex-op dusts his hands, and extracts the last of the donuts from the box.  
"Let's just let this one ride for a while. Maybe it will become clearer whether the punk is one or the other."

"I don't think that's a good idea, Mr. Reese. If this punk…person…is contemplating murder, then the sooner we find out the better!"

Reese sighs. "All right. Give me an address and I'll get started."

"And what about your other "business"? Finch asks, with what he hopes is not too exaggerated nonchalance.

"Guess that'll have to wait. The outcome is not going to change whether I get to it today or next week."

He shudders inwardly. Sometimes his employee still horrifies him with that casual willingness to resort to violence…! But at least he's reassured that John will not attempt to research the Number on his own. Now all he has to do is keep the ex-op busy and away from the truth until this Number is safely in custody.

There are a number of potential addresses to choose from; his target is not known for nesting long in one place. Under normal circumstances he would of course choose the most recent location as a starting point. But now…

"Try 956 Union, in the Bronx. Not a particularly wholesome neighborhood. Be careful."

His employee smirks. "Worried about me Finch? That's heartwarming."  
An oft repeated comment, which prompts an oft repeated response.

"Just protecting an asset Mr. Reese," he replies, not even glancing away from his monitor, because he _is_ worried, but for reasons other than his employee being sent into a dangerous neighborhood.

Not ten minutes later, Reese bids him goodbye and as he hears the gate close, drops his head in his hands. The question is still whirling around in his brain. Why did the Machine chose this particular number? It doesn't focus on random, opportunistic assaults or misconduct.

Whatever involved…whoever involved…it has to be personal, either for the perpetrator or the victim. And as far as he knows this person, this Number, is not a successful criminal organizing a larger plan to break the law. Not given his past performance which points to a below average intelligence and a propensity for violent outbreaks. Not exactly the characteristics of a calculating mastermind.

This is a life-long petty law breaker who evidently started on a path of misconduct early in life and never took an off-ramp...

But perhaps it's just a coincidence. Perhaps this person whose sullen expression stares out of this screen is indeed a victim this time. Perhaps his life is in danger, the result of his own activities as a felon.

Or perhaps the Machine _is_ aware of who is putting that person's life in danger…even though that "who" has yet to identify his target.

There are times like this that remind him some things are simply unexplainable. Like how this…contraption…he built, this collection of metal bits and pieces, electrical impulses, and programs started protecting him in those early months of development. Warning him of imminent danger without any coding, without prompting.

As disturbing as that was, this is even more so!  
The Machine somehow "knows" that John will eventually discover the identity of the second mugger, and make this Number a victim!

…

.

Carter steps into the precinct and with a sigh of relief sinks into her desk chair. Give her a perp to chase any day of the week over having to sit through hours of butt numbing testimony at the court. And in the end, the two plea peddlers agreed on a compromise that satisfied no one! Waste of time.

"Hey! Did the Professor get hold of you?" asks Fusco in a quiet voice, leaving his own domain and coming to stand in front of her desk.

"No. But then I haven't had my phone on for a while. What's up?"

He leans forward and in a conspiratorial whisper, "Remember that mope we picked up in the garage yesterday, the one our mutual friend was threatening to off?"

She nods.

"Well, there _was_ another guy involved in that mugging. And guess who's now going after that scum?"

Carter rubs her face with both hands. Great. Just great. The day had already started poorly and was going downhill fast. She had hoped that the conclusion to the events of yesterday would pull the curtain on that drama, but evidently there were going to be more acts to follow!

"So what is Finch going to do about it this time?" she finally asks her partner.

"He's sent Wonder Boy on a false trail. Gave me the perps latest address so you and I can get to this guy before Mr. Deadly gets hold of him…because you know what'll happen if he does!"

Fusco is fairly vibrating with excitement. She knows he has a mountain piled up in his inbox, just as does she, in spite of the supposedly "paperless" system instituted at the precinct last year. And anything is better than getting stuck in the office with a blizzard of paperwork. She's just as ready to get out of here as he is…

"Well, let's get on it!" she responds, replacing the badge and gun she had just removed.

.

_To be continued..._


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

...

"Nothing here either, Finch."  
The ITE device puts his employee's voice right in his ear, nuanced in frustration.

He's monitored John's progress into the barrios and as impressed as he is with the ex-ops efficiency in hunting down quarry, he wishes the man would make a mistake more often. He really can't afford that Reese catch up on all those different addresses yet. At least not until his other assets have completed their act in this drama.

"Any indication of where he might have gone?" Finch asks.  
A valid question of course. But one to which he already knows the answer. And is that then considered a lie? He sighs. A futile debate. _Angels dancing on the head of a pin…_

"I've got a lead on someone who might be able to give me that information. The superintendent that was here at the time. Unfortunately he's retired and I don't know where to," Reese replies, and gives him a name. "Can you pull up any info on that person? He may be in one of the Assisted Living facilities by now. One of the tenants described him as being a pretty old and in bad health."

_Oh, thank heaven!_ There are at least a dozen facilities and senior assistance houses for the elderly in that area. That should keep his wolf busy for a while!

He makes no effort to digitally locate which address houses John's superintendent but rather lists three possible locations for his employee. This way the ex-op will have to keep checking in for more information, which will hopefully use up additional time…and help track how close he's getting to the last address.

"Thanks, Finch. You sure you don't have anything further on our guy?"

"Not right now Mr. Reese, " he replies calmly. "I'll keep digging."  
And with that he clicks off the ear piece to check in with his other team.

...

.

"What a dump!"

Fusco kicks over an empty shoebox, causing several roaches to scurry to safety. The two of them had been searching the filthy apartment for almost thirty minutes, looking for clues that could lead them to the location of its most recent inhabitant.

"Well, we're not exactly dealing with a Martha Stewart protégé here" Carter responds, gingerly lifting an old newspaper from the kitchen counter. More roaches run for their collective lives… "Ugh! I hate those suckers!"

"Here, let me see that…"

She hands the paper to her partner who carefully shakes out the folds in case more of the insects have established squatters rights in the paper. When none drop to the floor he glances at the front page.

"Yesterdays." he confirms. "So whoever lives here didn't leave that long ago." He scans it one more time and then, "It's the afternoon edition…"

"So there's a good chance this guy may be coming back here. Maybe later today when the next paper hits the stands."

She glances around one more time, feeling uneasy being here even though their presence is sanctioned and in an official capacity. The superintendent had been very cooperative in handing over the keys, and considering the location of this low-rent housing, likely very familiar with the phrase "probably cause".

Surely not the first, nor last time a renter here is found to have an unsavory past.

Not that a key was even absolutely necessary: the cheap, flimsy lock would have given way to just a quick kick to the door. She thinks Fusco is actually disappointed that they had legal entry. Her partner is definitely spending way too much time with John!

In any case, this is the address that Finch has provided them. Now they just need to find its occupant… before John also finds this place.

Of course what they are going to do should that mugger walk through the door is something she and Fusco have yet to discuss. It's one thing to have legal right to enter the guys living space; quite another to have him surprise two cops staged in his room.

...

.

When the fourth address turns sour, he begins to have some second thoughts about the current investigation.

Traditionally Finch gives him very reliable and actionable information. But this time? It seems every avenue he takes leads him into a dead end. That plus the fact the old woman, the land lord at that last place, indicated his quarry hadn't been there in 11 months.

This whole process is beginning to make him antsy. If he continues to follow a trail almost a year old by bouncing from one location to the next, it will take a way too long to get to his target.

_Time to change tactics…  
_  
He tracks down the old super from the first apartment building...and relatively quickly, relying more on information gleaned from long time residents at that address than from visiting the senior housings Finch has provided him.

The old gentleman had been in his former job long enough to have developed friendships he still maintained. It was a piece of cake discovering his location by talking to the current residents and simply turning on the charm, the clincher being in creating a completely false relationship tie to the elderly man.

And from that aging superintendent he discovers some very interesting information…

His target had shared that apartment with a younger man, one whose description seemed rather familiar. Twenty-something, brown eyes, about five foot eight, greasy long hair, a foul mouth. A felon-in-arms.

_Huh..._

He sits now at a local coffee shop, nursing his third cup while pulling aside the curtain on everything that occurred yesterday and then this morning. Reviewing comments he had made, Harold had made. He images himself walking once more into the library this morning, seeing Harold at the computer, the monitor displaying Finch's research data…

He reaches a decision, makes his choice and hopes the consequences are those he can accept.

"Finch? I'm going to grab some lunch. I'll tune back in when I'm finished…"  
Not really a lie as he is hungry. But a quick sandwich on the run will suffice, for what he wants to do now he doesn't need his boss involved. For his own peace of mind. For Harold's safety.

Time to take some short cuts…and visit the city holding tank.

...

.

"Carter! Someone's coming up the walk…" Fusco had been looking out of the window and now edges carefully to the side of the opening, allowing the dusty blinds to hide any evidence of his presence from the outside. "Kinda looks like our guy."

She moves in behind him and follows his line of sight. A thirty-something year old male, dressed in off-the-Goodwill-rack style is walking up the sidewalk and quickly disappears out of their sight as he enters the building.

Their perp will only have to come up two flights of stairs and down the hall before being at the apartment door… a door now showing enough damage that he'll likely jack-rabbit run before they can confront him, Fusco having jammed the super's key and forced the lock until it not only opened but gave way completely.

"Ok. Here's what we do. We go out in the hallway, allow him to come up to the door and then confront him. Say there's charges filed against him for the mugging. And then let's see what happens…"

They step quickly into the hall, closing the damaged door behind them. It barely closes, but will not ever lock again, but that's all right. If things go as planned the thug won't be coming back here any time soon.

They wait two doors down, standing face to face as though having a conversation. One benny to being a plain clothes detective: the guy won't immediately ID them as police.

Right on schedule their suspect comes up the stairs and starts toward his apartment, glancing at the two strangers in the hall beyond his door. But as she and Fusco turn to accost the felon they hear someone tread up the stairs.

Another player is about to enter the stage…

_An hour before…_

_._

"Mr. Reese? John?"

Finch had been waiting somewhat patiently for the ex-op to turn the ear piece on again. But that patience had worn thin twenty minutes ago. Now he's wondering if his grand scheme is still in progress or falling apart at the seams. He contacts the Detective Duo, who thankfully haven't turned off _their_ communication devices!

"Detective? What is your status? Have you located our mugger yet?"

Carter responds. "Not yet, Finch. I'm pretty sure this is his apartment, but he's not here. At least not yet. We're going to hang around for a while and see if he shows up…"

"Thank you, detective."

He clicks off the com and sits quietly staring into space. Then makes a decision, a quick call, and with an abrupt motion leaves the computer station to walk purposefully to the gate, grabbing his coat on the way. Bear, delighted there is finally some movement on the part of the human trots after him, panting happily in the anticipation of some action.

Finch stops and stares at the dog. It had become a habit to take the animal with him whenever he left the library, but this time having the dog with him might become problematic. However, the one time he had gone out without his four-legged protection…?

There really wasn't any other choice, now was there? He grabs the leash from the coat rack.  
"Come along Bear. We're going on an investigation…"

They make it to street-side just in time for his driver to pull up to the sidewalk. Bear jumps onto the spacious leather covered back seat and takes the position next to a window for all the world see, striking a pose of royalty born into a life of luxury. He casually smudges the window with his nose, marking the location as his own while Finch follows more slowly, carefully arranging his stiffened leg into a tolerable position.

Finch gives his driver directions, then glances at Bear and smiles at the canine's regal demeanor. The dog and his employee seem to share one more characteristic: both are very proficient at adapting to changing environments!

.

_To be continued…_


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6

.

Reese leaves the station as calmly as he had walked in.

It still amazes him how the late Detective Stills' badge can open not just doors, but ensure cooperation! All he had to do was flash the badge, make up some tale about needing to gather evidence for an ongoing narc investigation, and presto, he's being shown to an interrogation room. And shortly thereafter yesterdays young thug is ushered in.

He'd kept his head down, pretending to read the blank sheet of paper on the table in front of him until the door closed him in with his quarry. The young punk sat down in the opposite chair, adopting the I'm-a-badass slouch so typical of young detainees. But bravado quickly dissipated when he'd suddenly recognized who he faced across the table.

Before a sound could leave the young male's lips, Reese had reached out and clamped a hand on the punks wrist, a gripping vise hard enough to grind bones.

"One word and I'll break it completely," he'd said calmly. "One sound and you'll never use that hand again. My promise."

The young man sat very still, looked at those fingers digging into muscle and tendons, and quickly nodded his compliance. The beads of sweat forming on his forehead were visible evidence that his brain was reminding him of the events of yesterday, in vivid detail.

"Very good. Now I only need a name from you, and then I'll be gone and you can go safely back to the tank. Nod again if you understand."

The kid nodded vigorously, unable to keep his eyes off the large hand clamping his wrist, making his fingers go numb.

"Your partner, the older man who helped you rob the cripple in that alley a couple of days ago. Your wrist bones for his name…"

The young thug made his choice and swallowing his reluctance with a bobbing adams apple offered him a name...and address.

_..._

_._

Fusco's attention is drawn to the head of the stairs as both he and Carter have the simultaneous thought: Wonder Boy has found the address to his boss' mugger! In a manner typical of a perennial lawbreaker expecting the authorities, the thug whirls around to source the sound, while Carter instinctively moves toward the stairway.

But to both their surprise it isn't Mr. Fearsome who appears on the landing...it's the Professor and his dog!

What happens next will always remain etched in Fusco's memory...

The instant the perp sees Finch he reacts. Their felon may not be the brightest bulb in the string, but the same strong sense of self preservation that has allowed him to survive a violent life into his thirties helps connect the dots more quickly than is likely the norm for him.

He instantly recognizes the man with the dog as the cripple he and his buddy attacked in the alley the day before. And the revelation straight lines to the conclusion Fusco and Carter are not just two uninvolved strangers standing in what is normally a deserted hallway.

The portly cop watches the scene unfold as in slow motion:

Carter, with her attention on Finch, moves too close to the punk in the narrow hallway. The felon pulls a knife from a back sheath with one hand while simultaneously grabbing the detectives pony tail with the other.

"Carter...!"

But Fusco's warning trails the action. From one second to the next the thug is behind the cop, has her head pulled back and a knife to her throat.

The two onlookers freeze. As Finch stands transfixed on the top stair tread, Fusco holds his hand on his gun, reluctant to remove the weapon from its holster for fear of spooking Carter's assailant into further violence.

But the forgotten player in the scene is not as inhibited.

Without a sound Bear explodes into action, his sudden movement jerking the leash out of Finch's grasp as the dog lunges toward the human with the knife. Sharp teeth find their target, iron jaws clamp down hard and pull the arm holding the blade away from the cop's neck.

The hapless man howls in pain while the ensuing violent scuffle throws Carter to one side, directly into the path of her partner, effectively blocking Fusco from helping the dog. Screaming obscenities, the thug switches the weapon to his opposite hand and slashes awkwardly at the dog. As a horrified Finch watches the knife find its mark, the sharp blade cuts into the animal's shoulder, the gash it leaves behind instantly coloring tan fur bright red.

But the punk doesn't know that a well trained military dog such as Bear will not release his hold short of unconsciousness, dismemberment, or death. Bear tightens his jaws as the felon raises the knife again for a second strike.

"No...nooo," Finch shouts, lurching toward the pair as Carter and Fusco untangle from each other. But all three humans know none will be in time to stop that deadly blade! Finch cries out in terror, increasing his awkward forward motion.

And suddenly the sound of a shot reverberates in the short hallway, echoing off the smudged walls as the thug crumples to the floor, grasping his shattered knee while a furious Bear still grips his arm.

_"Los!"_

Bear releases his hold immediately and panting, turns toward his Alpha standing now on the first tread of the stairs, gun still in his hand.

"John! Thank God!" she replies. "He would have killed Bear!"

"What about you, Carter...are you hurt?"  
Reese responds, moving toward Finch and the dog as Fusco turns to focus on the injured thug.

Carter's hand finds her neck, rubbing it as though reassuring herself the skin there as still smooth and uncut. "I'm fine, but..." She glances at Finch hovering over the stoic dog, attempting staunch the blood creeping out of the dog's shoulder wound.

Fusco watches the ex-op kneel next to the Professor. He hopes that among the vast complement of skills the ex-agent seems to possess are some relating to vet medicine. Right now though, there's nothing he as a cop can do to help other than take care of that perp.

He joins Carter by the injured man, vaguely registering her call for an ambulance as he proceeds to form a tourniquet around the man's thigh using the whimpering male's own belt. He's getting good at this procedure, he thinks, reminded of the last time he performed this on different person. His nemesis. The bane of his existence. The guy who just saved his partners life...

Fusco turns around to watch the rest of the drama unfold.

"He's bleeding, John!"

The normally fastidious geek has his expensive jacket pressed against the gash, currently ignoring the blood on his hands. "You've got to do something!"

"Here, take this," says Reese holding out his gun while trading his hand for that of his boss' on the jacket. Finch forms a platform with his palms to receive the weapon and it's a toss up which the geek finds most horrifying: the blood on his hands or the pistol now laying across those stained palms.

"It's alright, Harold. It'll be alright," Reese reassures calmly. "He's still standing...that's a good sign."

He gently removes his boss' coat and pulling the fabric away from the dog's shoulder carefully examines the several inches long gash. Bear stands in one place, moving only to turn his head and lick his Alphas hand.

The ex-op's fingers are quickly coated red as he probes the depth of the cut.  
"It's not too bad"' he reports. "Cut through the hide but not very deep into muscle. It will need some stitches though." He replaces the make-shift pad, using the jacket sleeves to secure it to the dog's shoulder. "Call the vet and tell them we're bringing the dog to them."

The reclusive billionaire holds his palms out to the ex-op like an offering plate and as Reese retrieves his gun, returning it to nestle in his back once more, the geek wipes his hands down his vest. The movement leaves behind two rusty streaks on the expensive fabric.

While Finch makes the call his employee's attention returns to the two detectives flanking the injured thug. The felonious male is awake and evidently not feeling as much pain in his leg now as result of the pressure exerted by the tourniquet. The thugs malevolent focus is on Finch.

"Ah ain't through with ya yet, ya four-eyed geek! Better watch ya back 'cause next time Ah won't just lift ya wallet...Ah'll make mincemeat outta ya dog too!"

Reese straightens on those words and faces the punk, his facial expression one that both detectives recognize as the killer persona in control. In one fluid motion the ex-agent pulls the Walther from the small of his back, and aims the pistol at the thugs head.

Carter responds instantly, placing herself between the perp and his certain death. "No John! He's in our custody now; he belongs to the NYPD!"

But both detectives know that as excellent a marksman as is the ex-op, he can easily move and send a bullet through their prisoner's head without putting either one of the cops in danger.

Fusco actually couldn't care less if the thug ate a bullet here and now, but he really doesn't want to be put in the position of having to try to arrest Wonder Boy. Not again. Before he can think of an appropriate course of action however, Finch intervenes.

"John! We need to go..._now! _Bear needs medical attention...!

Reese turns to his boss, his anger fading rapidly as he sees at the older man cradling the injured animal.

Finch's worry and concern are so clearly etched on the geeks face and he knows both are in pain; the dog suffering physically, the human mentally.

He returns the gun to his back and gently lifts the stoic dog into his arms. Bear rewards the action once more with a lick, this time to his Alphas chin as though thanking him for choosing to put aside a desire for revenge in favor of a dogs welfare.

The ex-op gently adjusts his hold on the injured animal and carefully moves down the stairs knowing the prey he's hunted all day is now out of his reach, courtesy of a couple of NYPD detectives. But...he's made his choice, and if the consequences dictate he give up his personal vendetta, then so be it.

He can accept that.

.

See Epilogue...


	7. Epilogue

_I can't seem to let this one go! Urged to write an Epilogue, I succumbed to the writers lure - but in the process needed to move the last few paragraphs in Chapter 6 into this section, so you've read those paragraphs before. _

_Mea Culpa…but otherwise it wouldn't have made any sense, timing-wise!_

* * *

**Epilogue**

.

"Harold, you're going to have to let me handle this," Reese urges quietly. "This vet will take good care of him. He takes care of several K9 dogs."

Finch follows his employee down the hall to the examining area, all but twitching in his nervousness.

"But I don't know these people; I've not had time to really do a decent back ground check on this emergency clinic!" he whispers fretfully as a vet tech ushers the trio into a small room. "He looks rather young, don't you think?"

"Read the diploma on the wall, Finch," says Reese as he carefully places the injured dog on the metal table and gently removes the suit jacket that had served as a make-shift bandage during their ten block trip. "At that university even the "C" students are considered top notch in their field."

"We should have taken him to our regular vet, Mr. Reese!"

Keeping one hand on Bear, the ex-op places the other on his boss' shoulder. "You called and our vet is on vacation, remember? Bear would have been turned over to a stranger anyway. And that other facility is a good half hour drive from here."

"I know…but…."

"He'll be fine, Harold," he responds, reiterating the assurance for at least the eighth time since leaving the thugs apartment building. Obviously Harold is very worried. And that worries him.

.

….

.

_Well, now. This is really nice…all these humans paying so much attention to him! Glasses Man had given him five treats already and Alpha was never far away, stroking his head, scratching his ears…_

_He doesn't remember what he did to deserve all this but whatever it was, Good Dog to him! He truly loves these rewards._

_Of course this visit to an arid smelly room with the metal table is not so pleasant, invoking memories of past visits to similar rooms. It's causing him some anxiety. But Alpha is here and has his hands on him while White Coat fusses over the shoulder hurt. _

_Leader is having an argument with White Coat now; he can tell from the human's expression that whatever it is White Coat wants, Alpha is not agreeing to it. That is good. What the Alpha wants, then that is what should happen. And if White Coat makes even the slightest aggressive move toward Leader, then he will make a hurt in that human's shoulder!_

.

…

.

"Mr. Reese…?" Finch starts plaintively, placing a timid hand on his employees arm. They had been introduced to the veterinarian not but a few minutes earlier. Finch was indeed impressed by the man's professionalism, though right now there seemed to be a standoff between the vet and the ex-op.

"I'll say this just once more: this is a very valuable, well trained military dog, not some apartment pet. _You_ will do the stitching, _not_ one of your employees. You will also use a local on him, _not_ a general anesthetic…and _no_ muzzle. And both of us remain here in this room with him while you fix that cut."

"Mr. Reese…?" Finch hisses in a low whisper, tugging this time. "Remember what you told me once? Be nice to servers…or they may spit on your food!"

Reese ignores the admonishment. If it will relieve Harold's anxiety to stay with Bear during this medical treatment, then that's what's going to happen. Rules are not writ in stone…as far as he's concerned anyway.

"And if that's not going to work for you Doc, then we'll simply take him elsewhere and your clinic's name will be circulated to all the K9 units in this city as being "uncooperative"! Your choice…!"

The vet blanches but nods and Finch is quite sure that it's not the ex-op's words that are making the impression, but rather the cold, CIA killer persona that has emerged. Given that circumstance, he admires the vet's courage in making demands of his own.

"I'll agree to your 'request'", the vet responds, with sarcastic emphasis on the last word, "but, Mr. Anderson, understand this: you _will _be held liable should this animal cause me - or my tech – any injury!"

"Agreed", Reese replies. "But you don't need your tech in here…I'll hold the dog."

The vet nods, and with yet another uneasy glance at Bear, proceeds to fill the syringe with Lydocaine. As Reese watches closely, seemingly quite familiar with the required dosage, Finch wonders again at the man's experiences.

But perhaps ignorance is bliss when it comes to the ex-op's less savory past activities.

.

…

.

_Ouch! That stings! He tries to turn his head to warn White Coat, but Leader has a firm hold on his neck now, preventing him from moving. _

_All right, Alpha. But you need to take care of that human if he hurts me again! He licks the tall mans wrist for emphasis. He glances at Glasses Man, standing to the side with a decidedly sick expression. Ah. Glasses Man doesn't like hurts. It's the same expression as when the smaller man took care of his cheek hurt, the one the Cat caused! If he ever sees that Cat again….!_

_Alpha is stroking him now and he butts his head into the tall man's chest. The small tugs on his shoulder are barely noticeable, merely little irritations that are far outweighed by the pleasure in being close like this with his Pack Leader, feeling secure and valued._

_._

_…_

_._

"All done. One of the techs will give you a sheet of instructions on how to care for this wound at home," the vet says, stripping the gloves off his hands and tossing them in the bin nearby. "And just so you know: I don't appreciate your high-handedness here. But…," he looks at Bear with a professional eye. "I have to admit, that is one fine animal. If you ever want to sell him, let me know."

"He's family. He stays with us till the end."

Reese gently lifts the dog from the table, holding him close until satisfied Bear is standing firm on all paws. Then giving the leash to his boss, he starts to follow the pair but at the door pauses, then turns.

"And doc? Thanks…"

The vet simply nods, following the odd trio to the entrance: a mousey professor with a limp, what looks like a professional hit man...and a magnificent looking dog. He watches them out the door, shaking his head.

It takes all kinds. He can do without the odd couple…but he does like that dog!

.

...

.

_Several months later…_

The city clerk is delighted to find this week's hard copy information already input into the court data base, especially since that special discount coupon to Bloomingdales showed up in her personal account this morning. And it's close to lunch time...!

She does notice however, that her paper copy doesn't quite match the current digitized version; all is the same but for a couple of discrepancies: her form indicates the defendant convicted of burglary, assaulting a NYPD officer, stabbing a dog and given a "3 year sentence; parole eligibility in 18 months".

However, the online data complete with digital sigs indicates it was burglary, an assault on an officer and a stabbing of a child. The defendant is sentenced to forty years.

Must be a mistake on the form, and it wouldn't be the first time! And it's probably not a stabbing of a "dog" but more likely a "boy". Yes, that would make more sense and would reconcile the digital data. Besides, it's now time for lunch...

She makes a decision, signs off her city account as she prints out the coupon, slipping the file with the obviously erroneous hard copy forms into the shredder.

.

...

.

_And as the clerk leaves the building, the Machine locks the digital file on this perpetrator and moves it to Archives. Justice has been served...the case is now officially closed. And Admin will be safe from this human._

The end…really…!


End file.
